A man who was seeing the sights in Chinatown one night, under Chuck's guidance, said to him as they stood in front of the altar in the Joss house:

“What would you do, Chuck, if you had a million dollars?”

“Nuttin',” replied Chuck, “fer I wouldn't hev to, see?”

I wuz out wid a bloke, showin' him de sites uv de Reservation, an' he asks me wot I'd do if I had a million bones. It nearly took me bre'th away t'inkin' uv it, an' I ain't got over it yet. Dat's a swell bunch uv money fer a guy to hev, an' dat ain't no mistake, either. Every time I t'ink uv it it makes me take a long bre'th, an' if I had it—say, en de level, I don't t'ink I'd ever be able ter get me bre'th at all.

But I guess blokes like Carnegie and Rockerfeller hez got more dan a million—I t'ink dey must hev two millions ennyhow. But if I had dere cush I wouldn't be buildin' no readin' rooms, en libraries, en t'ings like dat. Nixey, dey ain't no good. A guy wot's hungry can't eat de cover off a book, kin he, an' if he's out uv work how is a brown-stone front goin' ter put him next?

Dat's wot I want ter know.

An' besides, wot's de use uv holdin' on ter de coin. Yer can't only spend it wunce, an' w'en yer die, yer can't take it wid yer, kin yer? Dey ain't invented doze kind uv Mother Hubbards wid pockets in 'em yet.

Look et a rich bloke wot's bin workin' like a longshoreman all his life, pilin' up de dough. He's bin so bizzy gittin' it dat he ain't had no time ter hev fun—yer know, take it easy. An' de more he gits, de harder he hez to work—'cause he hez ter watch it fer fear sum odder bloke wot ain't bin so lucky, or ain't worked so hard, will put up er job on him an' trim him—yer know, rob him. And dere yer are.

Dere's nuttin' ter it; furst dey work fer it, den dey watch it, an' den dey die, an' den de surkus begins, fer everybody hez a mitt out ter git er grab ez soon ez de hearse leaves de house. An' de poor, rich bloke goes ter de same kind uv a hole in de ground dat ennybody else doz, an' it's a hundred ter one shot dat erbout half uv de stuff he had ter leave behind is goin' ter buy wine in de swell dumps fer a bunch uv stage Tommies.

Are yer on?

If I had it I wouldn't hev ter watch it, 'cause I'd be blowin' it in so fast dat it wouldn't need watchin', an' dat's no pipe dream.

De furst t'ing I'd do if I had a million would be ter go ter de Waldorf-Astoria an' hire er sweet uv rooms—yer know, er bunch uv dem. Den I'd give er dinner ter all de mob, wot u'd cost er hundred bucks er plate, an' after I'd got dem all paralyzed wid real wine, I'd send dem home in autermobiles. Den I'd go ter de guy at de desk, an' tell him I wuz goin' ter turn in, an' I'd say:

“I want er good, strong bloke ter cum up an' call me at 7 o'clock in de mornin'.”

An' den in de mornin', w'en he'd cum up an' pound on de door, I'd let him hammer his nuckles fer erbout ten minutes, an' den I'd say:

“Git out o' dere, yer Skibboreen harp—I don't hev ter git up.”

I'd hire de parks every Sunday, wid Eyetalian bands ter play “Every Day'll be Sunday By an' By,” an' I'd hev der swellest tallent you'd want ter sit down an' listen ter.

Dancin? Sure. All de workin' fellers could hev der steadies an' twist ter a knockout, an' if a bundle got freckles in her t'roat—you know, got dry, see—I'd hev coon waiters ter bring her a couple uv tubs uv milk so she could drown de freckles out. De fellers could hev everyt'ing en de bill uv fare, 'cept cigarettes—I wouldn't stand fer dem.

I notice dere ain't no statues on de Bowery. Well, dere ought ter be, an' I'd hev statues of Carrie Nation, Dowie an' Dr. Parkhurst put up, an' I'd hev 'em decorated wid crape.

An' I wouldn't hev nobody carryin' de banner, 'cause I'd hev free sleepin' cribs on every block. W'y should a bloke wot's poor hev ter pay fer sleepin' ennyhow?

Me headqua'ters would be de Waldorf, but I would hev a telephone station in Chinatown, so I could git a hot chop suey w'en I wanted it quick. Ev'ry mornin' at 10 o'clock—or near dere—I'd call up me Chat'am Square agent an' tell him ter give cologne ter der gals an' segars an' free lunch ter der gorillas. Ev'ry bloke dat wuz hungry would have a feed bag an w'enever he wanted it. How does dat crab yer?

I'd give out coupons ter all der mob ter go an' get a bath, a shave, a shine, a hair cut, an' a shampoo, so dey would be all polished up like a door knob, waitin' fer yours truly in his autermobile wid de Chinky chaffer.

An' dis gag erbout art galleries. W'y, dat gives me stagnation uv me liver an' I'll pass it up. Dere'd be no art galleries in mine. I'd hev two or t'ree tons uv corn beef an' cabbage an' a hundred blokes wid pitchforks ter shovel it out. If yer want ter git to der gang, give 'em sumthin' ter eat an' not sumthin' ter look at—not on yer tin-type. A bloke w'ot's hungry ain't stuck on listenin' to a long talk by a feller w'ot's just filled in wid everyt'ing, from soup ter pie, an' a ham sandwi'ch is better to him dan a t'ree t'ousan' dollar cromo.

Young Rockerfeller hez a class uv fellers in a Sunday school, an' he slings a few t'ings at 'em, but he don't stake 'em ter nuttin' except chin music, an' I could do dat meself, an' w'en he gives 'em a dinner he makes 'em pay fer dere own grub. No wonder he's got er million dollars—he ought ter own de earth, if he lives long enuff—I mean, if his father does, cause dere's w'ere de cush cums from in dat family, an' it ain't on der level, either, 'cause no bloke ought ter have more dan he kin earn.

Between you an' me dere's strong arm guys in odder places dan de Bowery, only dey work diffrunt. Stow dis in yer nut, cull, an' t'ink it over. Dere's sum good laws in dis country, but dey needs fixin', an' dere just about ez good ez a growler w'ot's full uv holes—de beer runs out an' de froth stays in. See?

I'd have de Board uv Health go round ter every joint an' see dat all de reg'lars is gittin' de right stuff from de guy behin' de fence. I'd cut out de horse show, 'cause de horses git show enuff. I'd give de people a show fer a change, and I guess by de time all dis would be done I wouldn't have enny more uv me million, an' I'd spend me life in bein' happy, wid nuttin' on me mind ter worry me.

Dat's de only way.

De poor bloke is de best after all, fer he kin be a king wid a ten spot, an' he ain't got nuttin' ter lose.

If he gits wet w'en it rains he knows he'll git dry w'en de sun cums out, an' if he's tied up ter a bundle an' has kids, dey couldn't look enny more like him if he had enuff coin ter make Goold look like a piker.